


slipping through my fingers

by teasockschocolate



Series: Carlwheeler Appreciation Week [2]
Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Angst, F/M, but like not too much, just kind of a bummer, protective dad pt, whump phillip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 15:56:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17004645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teasockschocolate/pseuds/teasockschocolate
Summary: He was the cause of her pain as she was the cause of his. He wished he could take her hurt away, but he didn’t want to lose his own. His pain was a reminder of the first feeling of pure and genuine love. He’d never regret his love for her, as much as he should





	slipping through my fingers

**Author's Note:**

> day 2 of carlwheeler week! angsttt dayyyyy: “But I can’t have you” | Not everything works out/angst

He wasn’t naiive enough to think that there was no resentment from the public about his sudden turn on the aristocrats, but he didn’t think it would get to this level. 

The protesters after the show were more aggressive than usual. As Phillip was showing him out, one man began to jeer at him for abandoning his family. For joining the freaks and this man had heard Phillip was trying to bed the trapeze girl how was that going. 

He’d tried to not let them get under his skin. He really had gritted his teeth and clenched his fists and told them one last time that they must go. 

And then the fist flew at his face. 

And with all that had been going on that week– the Jenny Lind tour, a notice coming from the bank, Anne’s rejection, the eviction warning from his landlord – all Phillip could think was: Of course this is would happen too.

Years of practice had earned him enough reflexes to duck out of the way, but his sidestep allowed another thug to hook his side. Unfortunately the feeling of a drunk’s knuckles beating against Phillip’s side was not an unfamiliar sensation, but an unwelcome one nonetheless. He twisted away, the aloof demeanor he’d been presenting clearly not an option anymore, and socked his attacker in the stomach. He was dimly conscious of the fact that a pair of men bigger than he couldn’t end well for him, but he didn’t see any other options.1

He turned similar to a cornered cat, kicking and scratching all he could reach. He spat and whirred and revved himself into a fit of adrenaline. 

“Hey!” A voice behind Phillip spoke. Someone grabbed him by the scruff of his collar. Barnum stood beside him. “I am sure you were asked to leave my property.” He glowered, letting go of Phillip in what could have been a more delicate manner.

“Don’t have to do nothing you freaks say.” One man laughed.

“Is that so?” Barnum took another step.

The man spit at Barnum’s shoes. “We’ll be back.”

“Like hell you will.”  
The two stumbled off and Barnum rounded on Phillip. “Son, are you alright.”

The term “son” made Phillip want to smile but it wasn’t the time. “Yes.”

“What were you thinking fighting like that?”

“They started it….” As he said it he heard how childish it sounded and bit his lip.

“I don’t doubt that, but we can’t have more of this. Understand?”

“Well, what do you want me to do when they come back?”

“They won’t.”

“What makes you think that?”

“We’re going to show them soon, kid.” Barnum was irritatingly smug as always. “Tours just on a pitstop back home and then we’re gonna head back out and show them all what we’re made of.”

“You can’t keep chasing the higher ups.”

“Go to bed, son.” Barnum clapped Phillip’s shoulders. “Rest up.”

Rolling his eyes and rolling out the sore shoulder Barnum hadn’t exactly just helped, Phillip turned out of the ring and headed upstairs. 

“The hell happened to you?”

He stopped. “Anne?”

She hopped off the banister, eyebrows lowered. 

“It’s nothing.” 

She opened her mouth to protest, but shut it just as quick. The silence hung thick between them –potential conversations that died on their tongues. 

“Goodnight, Mr. Carlyle. Look after yourself.” With a curt nod, she slipped past him (he held his breath as she did) and disappeared into her room.

There had been a time in the past when he’d diced his hand on a sword backstage – nothing major but had stung like hell. He’d bitten his tongue to not cry out and wrapped a strip of fabric around the cut. 

Anne had noticed. This had been in the brief couple of weeks of possibility after London, when she had finally begun to let her guard down and they’d been able to talk like friends a handful of times. She’d marched over to him, a pouch and damp cloth in hand, and had expectantly held out her hand for his. He’d sheepishly obeyed and bit down the flutter as her fingers skated over his palm, massaging the cloth to clean the wound and rewrapping it in a fresh bandage she’d retrieved from her pouch.

“Trapeze will give you cuts. I’ve got plenty of experience.” She answered his unspoken question. “You’ll have to learn to be more careful around here, Mr. Carlyle.”

His surname then was not a stiff formality, but had become a gentle tease that had made him smile every time she said it.

“Will do, Miss Wheeler.”

Now, as he sank into his office chair, holding a bottle to his swelling eye to cool the sting, he imagined if he had not blown everything. If like the time so long ago, she was here now, offering him a bandage and calling him an idiot.

He didn’t expect her to come play nurse to him. He had too much respect for her to expect that. He just longed for a touch beyond the hasty time he’d eagerly helped her up from the ground when she tripped two days ago. He wanted to be able to close to her. 

She’d ask what had happened and he’d know he shouldn’t tell her. He wouldn’t want to worry her or anyone else in the show about the growing violence. But he’d been keeping so much in around her he may burst if he had to throw something else into the mix. 

“Two men after the show… they weren’t too happy with me.”

“And?”

“Well, then we all sat down for tea and discussed our differences.”

She’d hold a ghost of a smile before frowning again. “Does it hurt?”

“Not too bad.”

“Did you fight back?”

He’d grin. “You should see them.”

She’d roll her eyes and remind him again that he was a fool and he wouldn’t mind. And they’d be able to laugh and both get rid of the weight that was dragging them to the ground. They could let go of the world and fly beyond it.

But they couldn’t. He knew why she wouldn’t let go of her fears and he had come to accept that. But however much his mind knew it was the smart choice, it didn’t stop his heart from both sinking and soaring every time he saw her. The worst part was knowing that she felt the same. She was in the same pain that he was in, wanted this as badly as he did. He was the cause of her pain as she was the cause of his. He wished he could take her hurt away, but he didn’t want to lose his own. His pain was a reminder of the first feeling of pure and genuine love. He’d never regret his love for her, as much as he should.

Cloth slipped through his unsteady fingers as he tried to wrap up his knuckles as he’s seen men do before. He hastily wiped down his face, luckily not too much blood coming with it. He sat alone at his desk, a throb coming from his split lip and an age old ache in his chest.


End file.
